


Brink

by skullduggery



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Emotional, F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-10-14
Updated: 2011-10-22
Packaged: 2017-10-24 14:40:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 9,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/264632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skullduggery/pseuds/skullduggery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone has a lot of feelings and problems and a lot of stuff happens when these are confronted. Lots of crack shipping. Lots of angst.</p><p>[this is beyond abandoned, let it rot.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Gamzee: Wake up

**Author's Note:**

> A collection of random AU shorts that make increasingly less sense as the story progresses, written mostly out of boredom and to get rid of plot bunnies.

Something hits you really hard, and you sit bolt upright with a yelp, wondering what it was.

It’s not makeup.

Digging the heels of your palms into your eyes, you realize that whatever is bothering you so profoundly definitely isn’t the greasy paint that’s usually a bit smudged over your cheekbones in the mornings.

Your face is gone.

Your motherfucking face is completely gone, and you’re utterly naked and alone in a stranger’s bed.  
These things fuel panic in you until you realize that even if you’re stripped bare and exposed on a chilly morning with no clue where the fuck you are, your previous assumption about your aloneness was false.

Rolling onto your side, you see the soft rise and fall of another’s breath gently lifting the covers, and as you inch closer to them, reassured beyond measure by their presence, you notice a few things:

1\. The sharp bony angle of a shoulder where it slides into a thin neck, absolutely motherfucking beautiful the way the morning light casts shadows on it. Shit’s like some artsy photograph.

2\. This motherfucker’s practically a skeleton. As you slide your hands down their (his, you realize when you pass over their chest, hoping for a nice pair of tits to squeeze and being disappointed) body, you can count ribs. You never gave much care to math, but you know that’s one thing that isn’t supposed to be counted.

You pull him close and press your naked skin against his back, cheek against vertebrae, smooth and still while you listen to him breathe. Everyone should have a sleeping cuddle buddy first thing wakin’ up sober in the mornings, you think.

It doesn’t take long for him to wake up when you start sliding your tongue over the little ridges where fat and muscle should be, and he rolls onto his back with a mumble that sounds a little like a buzz. 

“Good morning, motherfucker.” Man must moisturize or something for how soft his skin is all around your mouth like that. Too bad he has to go and stir up some motherfucking discord so early in the morning.

“Get out.”

Looking back, only five words were said that morning between you, but with that skinny bro shouting his two syllables over and over so loud it seemed like you were listening to him recite a monologue by that one chill brother who wrote a lot about being star-crossed and shit that one time. You wish you could remember his name. You didn’t pay attention in English class much either. Whatever, life’s all good.

You pay just about as much attention to his shouting as you did to his name as he herds you out the door, still half-naked, with his pillow. Motherfucker should stop straining his voice for a little and enjoy the miracle that is a good pillow fight, you think, but don’t bother telling him that. You yawn, shuffling through the hall as he chases you, throwing things of increasing hardness and value at you till he’s standing in the doorway all full of fire holding a frying pan over his head.

You just sit on the porch wondering if he’s gonna give you back the rest of your clothes or not. He tosses them in your face about as hard as clothes can be tossed and slams the door loud enough that it hurts your ears. Pity, you never did end up remembering his name. His number’s still scrawled across your forearm, though. Better put that with the rest of your friends’.


	2. Sollux: Scream yourself hoarse. Again.

Fuck. Fuck everything. And not in the fuck everything sense of the phrase you apparently live by when you’re drunk off your ass at stupid parties.

You think you lay screaming into your pillow that now smells like sweat and marijuana for about two hours. You only know that because that’s how long it takes you on average to lose your voice whenever you’re feeling in a particularly screamy mood, which is about half the time. You wonder if excessive screaming is gradually making your lisp worse.

Well, splitting your tongue on a dare probably isn’t the best thing to help hereditary speech impediments either, but you don’t _really_ care about that shit. You don’t really care about a lot of things, and in a matter of hours, you’ll come to terms with the fact you just spent the night fucking a dirty hippy and chalk it up to another failure in your miserable life.

Oh well. It wasn’t like you had any plans for it anyways. Life is pointless. So is death, but at least in death you don’t have to think about how pointless it is. Even programming, your one love, is completely pointless. All the technology will be antiquated in a matter of a few years anyways. So why do you do it?

Probably for the same reason you do stupid shit like leave the goddamn door open to stupid fucking horny potheads. Because you’re restless and self-destructive, and while people can get mad at you for trying to off yourself, there isn’t much they can do if you’re just an idiot who doesn’t care. Well, unless you count that one time your best friend brought your ex over to spoon feed you oatmeal for a week and take you on walks to the park like a goddamn dog to cheer you up.

Good times.

You’re not sure what time it is when you finally haul your lousy ass out of bed to get some work done, but it’s late. The sun’s already starting to cast early evening shadows on the world. It might be nice to go sit in the back yard with your laptop while you work on that one website design you were commissioned to do a few months ago. Months? Heaps of angry e-mails abou returning advance payments cluttering your inbox? You’re not too good with these sorts of things, it seems.

After a few long minutes staring out at your backyard, you decide to fuck the outdoors and just curl up under the covers with your computer. Besides, your ass is still sore from last night, and going outside would require putting more than boxers on, and by now it’ll be getting cold soon, so outside would just suck anyways. You quickly settle into a somewhat comfortable lull just plugging in words and symbols, but more than once they manage to warp into the phone number of a filthy fucking stoner’s number scrawled on… the bottom of your foot?

Yeah, fuck this weirdass shit. Why do you even bother making sense of anything, let alone one night stands? It's far better to just hide under the covers with your numbers.


	3. Feferi: Be the loyal friend

You just love painting your nails! Especially your toe nails. Then you can dangle your toes in the air like you're a floating ballerina till they dry and your mom doesn't have an excuse to yell at you for being childish! Well, she does anyways, but it's easier to brush off.

That, and your fishies just love when you paint them a flashy new color, and they'll follow your fingers as they tap along the glass like little fish themselves. Sometimes you really do wish you were a fish. You could just swim around all day with no worries, and you'd be the prettiest thing on the planet.

Well, you already are really pretty, according to the boys at your school, but you don't feel like it. Even with swimming every morning and track after school and straight A's and a three year spot as captain of the forensics team, you look in the mirror, and think that even if you were a fish, you'd be a fat old plecostomus.

Your friends say you suck up problems like a bottomfeeder, but you think you stay pretty much above all that. Well, at least when you're out having fun. There's so much in life that's just the best, and you don't have time to be a grumpygills! You're going out tonight. You even got a new top for the occasion. It's so shimmery and pretty. Everyone who's seen it says it's beautiful. Mom just said,

"Hm."

…But that's better than nothing, right? You decide not to dwell on it too long, because your nails still need doing. You have a gorgeous fuchsia color you've been meaning to try. With deft movements, you put on the first coat on your right hand, waving it around to dry, but you're distracted when your computer makes a cheery little bing! sound, signaling one of your friends has started talking to you.

Your stomach sinks and mentally you go belly up, biting your lip and hoping they're not calling off your plans for the night. You've been looking forward to this for too long, and you even did your homework early in preparation. You'd be so bored if they just ditched you like that! But maybe they did it for a reason. Maybe you're just not fun enough to be around. You dart over to your desk and pull up the window, sighing with relief when you see it's just one of your internet friends. You met him once at a football game with a team from out of town, and you kept in touch, even though he's in college and just a liiiiittle weird…

\- carcinoGeneticist [CG] has begun pestering cuttlefishCuller [CC] -

CG: FEFERI YOU BETTER BE ONLINE  
CG: I SWEAR IF YOU'RE OFF PREENING OR SOMETHING I WILL PERSONALLY DRIVE OVER THERE AND STRANGLE YOU WITH A BLOWDRYER CORD  
CG: AFTER DROPPING IT IN THE PRETTY PINK BUBBLE BATH I JUST KNOW YOU'RE TAKING RIGHT NOW  
CG: WHY DO YOU EVEN BOTHER WITH THAT STUFF? HELL IF YOU'RE STUCK WITH WHAT TO DO WITH ALL THAT MONEY, THERE ARE PLENTY OF HOBOS LURKING AROUND MY APARTMENT BEGGING.  
CG: BE A DEAR, DONATE TO THE SAVE KARKAT THE EXPENSE OF BUYING A SHOTGUN FUND. SOMEWHERE, AN ASSHOLE IS STARING OUT HIS WINDOW AT SOME DRUNK HOMELESS GUY, A SINGLE TEAR RUNNING DOWN HIS CHEEK…  
CG: THE QUESTION IS, WHAT ARE YOU DOING TO STOP IT?  
CG: BUT SERIOUSLY WHAT PERSON NEEDS TO SPEND FOUR FUCKING HOURS A DAY SWOONING OVER THEIR OWN APPEARANCE?  
CG: I WONDER IF THEY'VE GOT A NARCISSIST'S REHAB SOMEWHERE  
CG: I'LL LOOK INTO IT AND SEND YOU THE CARD  
CG: YOU CAN GET THROUGH THIS, PEIXES.  
CG: IT'LL BE A LOT OF WORK BUT I'LL BE THERE EVERY STEP OF THE WAY.  
CG: NOW GET THE FUCK ON YOUR COMPUTER I HAVE SOMETHING IMPORTANT TO TELL YOU.

You just roll your eyes and skim down to the last line for anything important in the message. But then again, your friend thinks everything is earthshaking news, so you wouldn't be surprised if he just wanted to tell you about a new kitten he took in. Last time you bothered to tally up the logs on your computer pertaining to his 12 cats, you lost a little faith in any shred of sanity he has, or had, or maybe never even possessed.

CC: Sorry, Karkat, I was doing my nails. What is it? 38)

Silence on the other end. He probably writes his long-winded responses up in a Word document and copy/pastes them to save time...

CG: OH NOTHING, JUST TRYING TO DEAL WITH A BIPOLAR DOUCHEBAG WHO REFUSES TO DO ANYTHING TO GET HIS ASS IN GEAR  
CG: AND DON'T YOU DARE CALL ME HYPOCRITICAL.  
CG: DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW HARD IT IS TRYING TO HELP SOMEONE WHO WON'T EVEN SPEAK TO YOU?  
CG: IT'S LIKE HE JUST IGNORES ME ALL THE TIME NO MATTER WHAT I HAVE TO SAY  
CG: OH HEY IT'S MY BEST FUCKING FRIEND BETTER PRETEND HE DOESN'T EXIST AND GO FUCK AROUND WITH A FLOPPY DISK.  
CG: HONESTLY, DOES HE EVEN LISTEN HALF THE TIME?  
CG: THE ONLY PERSON I'VE EVER SEEN HIM CRAWL OUT OF HIS HOLE IN THE WALL FOR IS YOU, UNLESS HE WANTS TO BITCH AT ME AND NOT LET ME GET ONE FUCKING WORD IN EDGE-WISE THEN LOG OFF IN A FIT OF ANGST.  
CC: Weeell… To be perfectly )(onest, I sort of tune you out sometimes, too.  
CC: Not in a bad way, though!  
CC: You're just a bit… )(ard to follow…  
CG: THE FISHGIRL DOESN'T PAY ATTENTION TO ME? I'M SO DEEPLY WOUNDED  
CG: HERE LET ME JUST GO CRY  
CG: IN THIS CORNER  
CG: ALONE  
CG: WELL NOT ALONE THERE'S A BLACK WIDOW WEEPING TEARS OF BLOOD HERE TOO  
CG: WE'RE GOOD FRIENDS BY NOW.  
CG: I NEED YOU TO TALK TO SOLLUX.  
CC: )(ave I ever told you )(ow GR-EAT you are at segways?  
CG: SHUT THE FUCK UP PEIXES AND GO COMFORT MR. MOPEY FOR ME.  
CC: Can't, I've got plans tonight. 38|  
CG: BIG FUCKING SURPRISE.  
CG: FEFERI, HE'S ONE OF MY BEST FRIENDS, AND I KNOW YOU'VE NEVER MET HIM, BUT WHATEVER YOU GUYS TALK ABOUT GETS THROUGH HIS THICK SKULL.  
CG: I'LL GET YOU SOMETHING FROM BED, BATH & BEYOND OR WHATEVER PRISSY SALON YOU LIKE IF YOU DO.  
CC: FIIIN-E… Just remember I like vanilla scented t)(ings, okay? 38)  
CG: I HOPE YOU GET KNOCKED UP AT YOUR STUPID PARTY

\- carcinoGeneticist [CG] has ceased pestering cuttlefishCuller [CC] –

You frown and go back to listlessly applying fuchsia to your nails. Why are you even friends with most of the people you talk to? You may never know. At least they bother talking to you in the first place, though.


	4. Tavros: Worry yourself sick

You worry about him sometimes. He always seems so unstable. He swaggers in the door around lunch time with a dark bruise under one eye, looking like he just wrestled a bear, and grinning ear to ear like a kid at Christmas. You wish you were strong enough to just take him and stick him on his feet, turn him in the right direction, but somehow he’s always the one who manages to pull you back together after long hard days.

He lights up and coughs. After years of knowing each other, and years of you politely declining, he still offers you a toke. You’re not quite sure how you feel about him a lot of the time. Most of the time, though, you alternate between degrees of worry, sometimes making yourself sick doing so. He tells you to just “Chill man, ain’t no thing in the world worth worryin’ your pretty head over.” This is often accompanied by a lot of spastic hand movements, like he’s trying to become an air bender telling you about how cool things like leaves are. He actually counted all the veins in one once just to report back to you the miracle of each and every one of them, comparing the abstract swirls to celebrities’ faces.

He calls you pretty a lot, too. You’re mostly used to it by now, but when he’s just bordering on sobriety, and he leans over with his lazy smiles and smoky breath, and whispers sweet nothings in your ear across the couch, it fills you with emotions that make you want to just get up and run.

Well, if you could run. It’s getting better with physical therapy, but you’ll probably be on crutches for the rest of your life after that car accident. Your girlfriend really shouldn’t be allowed to drive on icy roads, but she did that night, and now you’re crippled for life. It’s just how things go, though.

She’s out of town for the week, so you try to cheer up and be productive. You’ve been putting off doing a lot of necessary things in favor of worrying, and feeling trapped in your own skin, with brief intermissions talking with one of your classmates about rapping and awesome stuff like that. His stuff is so deep. With enough work, and maybe a little less time spent organizing your Magic: The Gathering deck instead of practicing, you could almost maybe keep up with his rhymes for more than a few minutes.

It’s still early enough in the day that you have time to go run errands, and he tags along because going to buy groceries and stop by the bank is like a trip to Disney World for him. You might take him to the park later, except whenever you do that, he always ends up playing Lava Monster on the playground with the kids, and their mothers always pull them aside and take them home when they see him hugging their children and lifting them up on his shoulders. It hurts you to pull him away so they can keep playing, because he really means well, but no matter how cute a puppy with rabies is, it still has rabies. Figuratively of course; you’d never compare your best friend to a sick dog. He’s weird, sure, but he is what he is and it’s not your place to judge or worry. Yeah…

Forget it, you’ll just let it all go. Stress manifests itself in the body, and your body needs anything but more tension. You need to save all your strength for keeping the people you love together. You’ll get some ice cream, and maybe you’ll have some fun at the park too, on the swings or something. It’ll be a good day, and nothing will ruin your mood.

At least, not until half-way through having the most fun you have in days, your girlfriend calls, says she’ll be back early, and that she wants you to take her out for some “Itaaaaaaaalian food! Yum!!!!!!!!”

She says something threatening about bringing “that mutt” along this time, then later that evening, laughs when your crutches miss the curb and you trip into the passenger seat of her truck, starting the engine before you’ve even got your other leg in. Avoiding her gaze and staring out the window, you watch Gamzee chase the car for a good block and a half, stupid grin in place, before getting tired and trotting back home, or wherever he decides to wander off to tonight without you there to keep him inside.


	5. Sollux: Get a ride to school

Oh god, there it is again.

That fucking ugly, shitty, _ironic_ , periwinkle old Volkswagen Beetle. Idling in front of your house like every weekday morning, glimmering happily in the sunlight, fucking _Hawaiian flower bumper stickers everywhere_.

You grip your backpack in one hand, and a black coffee in the other, and prepare to face the prick smirking behind the wheel. Deep breath? Check. IPod? Check. Meds?

…

You don’t need meds you’re not fucking sick what the fuck do you look like, some charity case? You push your way out of the door in a huff, kicking it shut behind you and not bothering to lock it. If someone wants to steal your shit, they can help themselves. Everything of value is already on a flash drive in your pocket.

Of course the douchebag comments on your lack of home security with judgmental silence and a single raised eyebrow before greeting you with an ironic “Howdy doody, Sunshine!” You swear, he gets off on making this necessary daily carpool hell for you.

You jam your earbuds in and shrug your hood down over your eyes to block him out, but as luck would have it, the battery’s dead. He almost smirks as you pocket it angrily, kicking one of your legs out the window like you know he hates and folding your arms standoffishly.

He takes a left turn a lot sharper than necessary, and your forehead knocks against your knee. Dammit Strider. Somehow defeated without a word in edgewise, you cease shoving your heel against the rear-view mirror of his stupid, too small, ugly car and sulk the majority of the rest of the ride.

And this is how you get to school most days. You don’t even really have a reason to be so bitter towards it, but why not? Because you don’t have a car of your own, and the only person you know who lives near enough to give you a ride to avoid the hellish bus system is a pretentious twat of a music major. You wish you could say his ego was compensating for a lack of intellect, but the bastard was just as snarky and witty as you.

For a while, you guys tried conversation, which always ended up as heated arguments, or with you practically trying to climb out the window at every stoplight to walk the rest of the way. Eventually, he put a child safety lock on your door, which only served to tempt you to strangle him in the middle of heavy traffic all the more. He finally took the lock off after making you promise not to be a dumbass, and you agreed if he promised not to mouth off. You think he really tries, but much to your dismay, it’s rare to get a completely silent, peaceful ride in.

You use the time he isn’t rambling about stupid shit no one cares about to think, mostly about your life choices, and about your classes, about the debt you’re sticking yourself with paying for them for no good reason.

Thinking is pointless.

And staring out the window, seeing nothing is far less pointless, so you just do that.

Mr. Cooldouche asks you if you’ve ever considered a job as a stunt double in zombie flicks with a face like that. You ask for a list of all the kinky gay pornos he’s been in with a face like that.

“Listen dude if you want a hunk of this fine man meat just ask, I’m used to you nerds checkin’ me out.”

“If I check you out at all, it’ll be to rip out your end pages and replace them with bomb threats before returning you to the underfunded ghetto library you came from.”

“Feisty aren’t we? Don’t worry, I won’t charge you too much extra for weird shit like that since you’re such a pal.”

“Yeah I’m about the only pal you got. What does that say about you?”

“That I’m a charitable person to take such an ugly duckling under my big strong wing.”

And on and on, till he finally pulls into a parking space on campus and you can dart out the door of that damn slugbug and disappear into your own little world again without uncomfortable intrusions worming their way in.


	6. Feferi: Learn just how hard old habits die

When you get back from your party, you’re too tired to think. Too tired even to check your reflection in the hall mirror as you pass your mom knitting and watching Lost re-runs in the dark and she snaps at you to dress like less of a whore when you go out on your way to bed. But you’re not too tired to talk to Sollux. You drag your laptop to your bed and force your eyes open, squeezing your cheeks into a fish face and sighing to wake yourself up. He’s never shown as “available” in your chumroll, but he’s always on his computer. Where else would a programmer be at two in the morning on a Saturday?

\-- cuttlefishCuller [CC] has begun trolling twinArmageddons [TA] --

CC: )(ey Sollux! You t)(ere?  
TA: …what…  
CC: Not)(ing, I was just wondering )(ow you were doing. 38)  
TA: 2o kk 2ent you two iinterrogate me ba2iically.  
TA: there’2 nothiing two talk about.  
TA: ii’m doing great, ff.  
CC: W)(aaaale… )(e did seem pretty worried about you…  
CC: Are you s)(ore you’re okay? 38(  
TA: ugh.  
TA: fiir2t off, ii’m fiine, 2o you can 2top wiith your frowniing.  
TA: 2econd off, ii'm totally fiine, 2o don't get nervou2 and u2e your 2TUPIID FUCKIING IIMATURE FII2H PUN2 ON ME.  
CC: Sorry…?  
TA: woah no ii'm 2orry ff.  
TA: ii really don't miind the pun2, they're cute.  
TA: and the yelliing… that wa2 probably bad of me…  
TA: ii'm fiine, 2o 2top worryiing, okay?  
CC: If you say so…  
CC: W)(at s)(ould I tell Mr. Crabbypants, t)(ough?  
TA: that he 2hould go buy a broom  
TA: and 2hove the handle 2o far up hii2 a22 iit come2 out hii2 mouth.  
TA: maybe that would 2hut hiim up.  
CC: )(e's just rying to be a good FRI--END, Sollux!  
CC: W)(at's the )(arm in just talking to )(im?

He takes a while to reply, so you feed your fish and change into your pajamas till you hear your computer bing again.

TA: ff, we've been friiend2 for year2, and ii'm 2iick of every conver2atiion we have turning iintwo hiim naggiing.  
TA: 2OLLUX, KEEP ON TOP OF YOUR GRADE2. 2OLLUX, ARE YOU 2LEEPIING? 2OLLUX, 2TOP BEIING 2O DOWN ON YOUR2ELF. 2OLLUX 2OLLUX 2OLLUX, YOU'RE A COMPLETE AND UTTER FUCKUP, AND II'M GOIING TWO POIINT IIT OUT AT EVERY OPPORTUNIITY AND THEN TWII2T EVERYTHIING YOU 2AY IINTWO AN EXCU2E TWO PRETEND TWO BE YOUR MOTHER.  
TA: ii'm fuckiing 2IICK OF IIT.  
TA: II DON'T NEED TWO BE WORRIIED ABOUT, II JU2T WANT TWO BE LEFT ALONE.  
CC: You do a good impression of )(im, )(e)(e…  
CC: I )(ate to say it, but )(e )(as a point, t)(ough.  
CC: At least as long as I've known you, you tend to… Umm…  
CC: Not take very good care of yourself. 38/  
TA: ii don't care.  
CC: W)(at? Sollux, you can't just not care about keeping yourself )(--EALT)(Y!  
TA: well ii don't, 2o fuck thii2 conver2atiion.  
TA: what about you, ff?  
TA: ii2 your mom 2tiill makiing you 2ee that 2hiitty coun2elor?  
CC: Well, no, not anymore…  
TA: that'2 good. ii'm ju2t gonna a22ume you 2tiill aren't on good term2 wiith her, though.  
TA: are you 2tiill pukiing or are you eatiing properly agaiin?  
CC: SOLLUX!! 38(  
CC: Don't you c)(ange the subject on me like that, young man!  
TA: ii'm 22, YOUNG LADY.  
CC: And I'm 18. You're not getting out of t)(is one, I'm starting to get R-EALLY WORRI-ED about you!!  
TA: why.  
CC: You're not answering any of my questions, and you're doing t)(e w)(ole I'm-fine-even-t)(oug)(-I'm-really-not t)(ing again.  
CC: Can we be completely )(onest with eac)( ot)(er for ten minutes? T)(en I promise I'll leave you alone.  
TA: 2ure, why the hell not.  
CC: GR---EAT!! 38)  
CC: So w)(at )(ave you been doing lately?  
TA: 2chool. 2tupiid 2tuff. fiinally gettiing around two doiing tho2e commii22iion2 from forever ago that one land2capiing company gave me for theiir web2iite.  
CC: T)(at's good, I guess. W)(at sort of stupid stuff, t)(oug)(?  
TA: none of your bu2iine22.  
CC: H-EY, we had a D--EAL! >38(  
CC: Do I )(ave to tell Karkat you're dealing drugs out of your living room?? You know )(e'd come smas)( your door in. I'm serious!!  
TA: je2u2 chrii2t calm the fuck down.  
TA: ii've ju2t been 2leepiing around, nothiing two bad.  
CC: T)(ank you. 38)  
CC: W)(y would you do t)(at, t)(oug)(, Sollux? It's still pretty bad…  
TA: why are we even haviing thii2 conver2atiion?  
CC: You saaaid… I promise I won't tell Crabcakes. 3;)  
TA: ff iit'2 2tupiid. thii2 ii2 2tupiid. ii have work two do goodniight.  
CC: My finger is )(overing over "carcinoGeneticist", Sollux… 38|  
TA: oh, fuck you 2o hard.  
TA: ii don't even fuckiing know.  
TA: do ii need two have a goddamn rea2on for doiing what ii want wiith my liife?  
TA: no, becau2e iit'2 miine, and ii'll wa2te iit iif ii want.  
TA: 2o fuck off and pe2ter 2omeone el2e becau2e ii've had iit up two here wiith thii2 2hiit.  
TA: iif ii wanted two actually do 2omethiing wiith my liife, ii'd 2tock up on 2elf-help book2 and get my2elf two a nunnery A2AP, but II DON'T, 2O GET OVER IIT. iit DOE2N'T MATTER, 2O LEAVE IIT BE ALREADY. II'M FUCKED, DON'T THIINK II DON'T KNOW THAT.  
TA: and gue22 what, peiixe2, II DON'T GIIVE A 2HIIT.

It hurts to see someone so hopeless. It makes you feel like a little hollow is digging itself in your chest, gnawing away at the security of your little room. You hug your plushie whale close and spend a good few moments questioning your reasons for even trying. Is it because you like this person you've never met? No, he's sort of a jerk. Is it because you think he has something to give to the world if he pulls out of this? Nooo… So what is it, then? Why bother caring at all? About anything? Oh no, you're starting to sound like him. You bite your lip and type the first thing that comes to your mind, dropping your quirk for a bit because this is really seriously important, you think.

CC: Why are you alive?

Dead silence, and you think he may have gone offline or blocked you, till about ten minutes later:

TA: …what?

You take a little hope in the fact he's actually responsive.

CC: Why are you alive, Sollux?  
CC: Couldn't you have killed yourself if you hate your life that much?  
TA: ii don't know…  
TA: becau2e 2ome people don't want me two?

There it is… You smile in the dark and giggle to yourself.

CC: EXACTLY!!!!  
CC: You have people who love you, and care about you!!  
CC: And you must love and care about them just a little bit if you don't want to hurt them by dying, right?  
TA: …  
TA: …2o…?  
TA: human2 do 2tupiid thiing2 liike get attached two each other. iit'2 only natural.  
CC: And if it's natural, why try to go against it?  
CC: How much effort would it really take for you to just be happy and admit you care about some things instead of floundering like this?  
TA: becau2e iit HURT2, ff. iit fuckiing HURT2.  
TA: there'2 no paiin iin not cariing. there'2 nothiing.  
TA: ii can ju2t go through my day and not have two worry about hurtiing anyone or my2elf iif ii ju2t fuck them and all theiir 2tupiid emotional bull2hiit. ii don't need "love" two 2urviive, ii ju2t need two keep my2elf 2afe.  
TA: that'2 what all THEM are for. THEY don't expect me two call them back and a2k them out two coffee or anythiing. THEY don't hang around telliing me ii need two put on weiight.  
TA: THEY don't HURT 2O FUCKIING MUCH WHEN II WAKE UP AND REALIIZE THEY AREN'T THERE AND NEVER WIILL BE AGAIIN.  
TA: you want two know why ii'm aliive??  
TA: iit'2 becau2e ii'm fuckiing TERRIIFIIED.  
TA: 2CARED 2HIITLE22 ii'll wake up dead and be 2urrounded by all the people ii've left or who've left me, that nothiing wiill have changed and everythiing wiill ju2t be the 2AME OLD 2HIIT AND II WON'T BE ABLE TWO E2CAPE. EVER. FOR ALL ETERNIITY, JU2T 2TUCK WIITH MY2ELF.  
CC: Oh, Sollux…  
CC: I really wish I could give you a hug right now…  
TA: ii don't need a hug.  
CC: >38\  
CC: Y-ES, you R-EALLY do!  
CC: *Hugs*  
TA: thank2, feferii.  
CC: You're welcome, Sollux. 38)  
CC: …  
CC: )(-E-E )(-E-E…  
TA: what ii2 iit now?  
CC: I got you to talk for more t)(an ten minutes. T)(is is progress!! 3;D  
TA: yeah, yeah.  
TA: iit'2 late, ff, you 2hould probably get 2ome 2leep.  
CC: Are you going to be alright, t)(oug)(? 38(  
TA: ii hone2tly don't know.  
TA: ii gue22.  
TA: ii mean, iit'2 not like ii'm goiing two diie.  
CC: Yeah, but STDs are no fin!!  
TA: oh, 2hut up, peiixe2.  
CC: Be careful? 38(  
TA: 2hore.  
TA: FUCK.  
TA: *2ure.  
CC: )(ee)(ee, okay then, I guess that's something... Take care of yourself, t)(oug)(.  
CC: Good nig)(t!

\-- twinArmageddons [TA] has ceased pestering cuttlefishCuller [CC] --

These conversations always make you feel sick to your stomach. While you're about to curl up in your comfy bed under the quilt your mother knit you as a child (warm and comfy, even if it is in a shade of ugly tan), so many people are still awake worrying and sick and helpless. You don't deserve all of the stuffed animals watching over you from the shelf above your headboard. You don't deserve your lavish home and endless comforts while a good friend of yours is off doing you don't even want to know what with not a hope in the world.

You stare at the suddenly painfully bright screen for a long time, eyes stinging with tears in the harsh half-light, ears ringing and buzzing and making your head spin. The nausea increases. Downstairs in the kitchen, your mother is getting a glass of water, and you can hear her pour the rest of what she doesn't drink down the drain. Such precious, precious things, wasted, unappreciated, undeserved. You're all worthless.

With mechanical, well-practiced motions, you find yourself in the hall bathroom, door locked, bent over the toilet bowl with your fingers in the back of your throat, tickling your gag reflex till the hors d'oeuvres you had at that stupid, stupid party come searing their way up, making your face burn and your stomach twist.

You cry for a good hour, curled around the white porcelain, clinging to it like a lifeline, and once, your mother knocks on the door, tells you to get out and go to bed or let her in to talk. Stiffly, mindlessly, you make your way back to the well-worn tan wool and smiling plush faces and soft light of your fish tank, brushing by her without a word like a wraith back to the room that you're too ugly and shallow and stupid to deserve. Outside, the sun begins to taint the skylines of suburbia a pale grey, washing out all the deep shadows plaguing the night.


	7. Aradia: Catch up on lost time

You were surprised when he contacted you. It was unexpected, but refreshing, not having to be the one to instigate a conversation with him. Still, you would've appreciated if he hadn't called you at five in the morning on a Saturday.

After finally seeing his face again, though, you decide that you don't mind one little bit. Nothing a little coffee and really, really good company can't fix. What makes him qualify as "[emphatically positive adjective] company"? You don't know. Love was one of those things you never got the hang of categorizing.

There's something you can't label about the slight increase in your pulse, or how you always feel just a little prettier when he looks at you, and frankly, you've given up trying. You're okay with not understanding your attraction, despite a heartbreak or two, many sleepless nights and enough tissue boxes to keep Kleenex in business for at least a year between you. Sure, it would be nice to know why you're still so head over heels for this jaded jerk with those beautiful heterochromic eyes and that goofy grin, whenever you're lucky enough to see it.

He's waiting for you at six AM sharp in the park, just like he told you he would. You're surprised, usually he's the one for lateness, not you. His nose is running a little in the morning cold, but his embrace is still warm. You offer him a sip of your latte and are even more surprised when he accepts it gratefully. You ask him why he's crawling out of his man-cave so abruptly.

"I missed you." He says simply and tries to smile. He's gotten skinnier, and under the rims of his glasses, his face looks more gaunt than you've seen it in a while. You wonder what he's been up to, but you aren't going to ask. It's his business, whether you like it or not.

You tug your sweater down over your fingertips and start walking, taking in the beautiful colors in the leaves this time of year, and the last traces of the sunrise on the horizon, but mostly him. He sneezes and trips a little on a crack in the sidewalk. You suppress a giggle because the F-bomb he drops somehow seems endearing.

Without you saying a word, he starts talking, and you can tell it's one of his manic days because he can never seem to finish a sentence, and as he walks, he trips several more times, and almost bowls over a schnauzer as he establishes an uneven jog. You keep pace easily, and the crisp air feels good teasing your hair off your shoulders. You listen for two full circuits around the park to his life in the months since you've seen each other last, not bothering to say anything till he's done.

"Well… What have you tried doing about it?" You ask when he's finished, winded, and flops down on a nearby bench. You sit behind him and cross your legs, finishing off your latte, of which none has spilled. Years of morning jogs and your insatiable caffeine addiction have served you well it seems.

He laughs, and it's genuine. You don't know why, but you find it funny, and light giggles quickly turn into a full on laughing fit, doubled over, snorting occasionally. Of course he comments through his own cackling how stupid you sound, and you just shake your head incredulously through tears of joy. This is always how it turns out with you two, emotional release through laughter, and any second now…

There it is. The distinct point where laughter turns to sobs, shaking his narrow frame, and he folds into himself. You just place a hand on his knee and wait. Having been dead before, hopeless beyond all hope, and called back from the grave, you know that often times words just aggravate, and make lasting impressions. Sometimes, what's needed is just a release, and a dismissal. It's gone. No more thinking and dwelling on tears and advice and awkward half hugs, trying to contain someone's sorrow in your arms. Eventually he quiets down, and as per usual, swears at you for getting him "like this". He clutches his shirt right over where his heart is when he says that. You just smile and tell him that it'll be okay. You don't promise when, but it will.

You ruffle his hair and he bats at your hand, and you feel a misplaced tension slip from your shoulders. You talk for a long time, till the mid-afternoon brings crowds of kids and parents to the peaceful park. He tries to kiss you, as usual. Sloppy and awkward and only half-baked. And you duck away with a laugh. Yes, you love him. You love him very much. But after having been down that road before, you know it doesn't lead anywhere but trouble. You can love siblings, too. Especially when they're as cute and dorky and easy to play protective big sister with as Sollux is.

You drive him home, and again he tries to kiss you, even gently lead you into the bedroom, and once more, you refuse, patting his head like you know annoys him and making him flinch. You know he's hurt, but you also knows that he likes straightforwardness. So you sit together on his living room floor doing homework together like you did in high school, sans hand holding. You can't compare notes and laugh about your teachers anymore: he's a computer engineering major, and you chose physical anthropology. But no matter how far you differ in silly little things like what you nerd out over, love is still love, and there's simply no explaining that.


	8. Gamzee: Walk your path

You don't know what you're doing. You think you might've maybe been on the couch scribbling out some of the dopest motherfuckin' words your brain's ever gotten the gumption up to conjure. You still have the pen in your hand. Green ink. You've never seen green pens. Writing with it felt like writing (growing?) grass into existence. Deep roots in these words, motherfucker.

Yes, that's what you might've been doing maybe twenty two minutes ago. Twenty three. Forty eight. It doesn't matter. Now you're in the middle of a road. A path, as it were. Like the start of some journey to the motherfuckin' soul you're dead set on, like an arrow fired from something mythical, straight and true. Median lines stretch on forever in front of you, bright like fire, like the last days of summer, like the leaves now tinting the trees like the sun.

You haven't been this high in a while, where you transcend the lazy crawl of life to something more: demi-godlike, surreal. Like a twisted clock in a famous painting somewhere just ticking on to your own vital rhythm. One foot in front of the other, barefoot calluses on your heels scraping at old yellow reflective paint. A few cars zip by, a few honk and you call back to them, but they don't matter. You've got your own purpose to follow, and it's unlike anything any of those invisible faces could ever know. You don't know how far you walk, or run, down that proverbial road, but you think you might've made it to the other side of the world, 'cause all of a sudden it's dark and it's cold and this isn't the same Apollonian highway you once believed it to be.

Oh well, shit's so fluid with this life thing you can start at one end of the stream and in a few hours you'll be back where you started in some little tide pool pulling you back to where you're meant to be.

Or you could end up on your best friend's back porch. The fence was easy to hop, and he's not like someone else you know who keeps lots of dogs running wild in the weeds with teeth that wanna make friends with your hands so bad you gotta tell them brothers, "No, not this time man. I got blood here in my veins, and you got some in your motherfuckin' doggy heart, we ain't no different, but shit just ain't real when you're tryin' to get mine all spilled on this here grass."

They calmed down after a while and you had a nice nap together with your heads all on each other's bellies breathing like one motherfuckin' being. So beautiful.

You settle yourself down on the nice cool concrete of the plain porch and hug yourself, 'cause for once, your best bro ain't here to do any huggin'. While you wait for a sign, you watch the tree. It's not green anymore like it was for a long time when you and your best friend would share colorful drinks up in its branches and that tiny motherfucker would just cling to you like you was one and the same with a branch as if he would die any second. Now it's all faded and washed out and half-naked, shivering in the wind some divine force just decided to stir up. It whips your hair around your face, and through the dark brown cloud, you see a leaf leap from a twig near the top and plummet down. It blows up against your feet and you stick it behind your ear.

Two, six, eight, four, five more drop, blowing over the fence and out of sight. One gets caught between the eighteenth plank from the left of that flimsy metaphorical wall splitting up the earth's people, and you're not sure why, but it makes you a little sad. It's gonna freeze there all winter and rot away when it was once so pretty and green, you just know it. But then you remember that all the dead things settle down under their snowy blankets and start becoming homes for all the new life when everything finally thaws. You smile.

You don't like winter very much. It presses in around you, makes you slow and curls you up like grass in a campfire. It's not quite the temperament around you that just bites and prods and makes it hard to see yourself through the white on white on grey on cold right now, but it's getting there. There's that sharp cling to the air, fixing itself to the inside of your lungs, and those clouds on the horizon are getting awfully close.

You prefer summer so much more. You like the endless days, and the flow of time so gentle, how everything night and day melts into a colorful soup for you to drink up when you're sick like some shit your Pa used to make you. There's always music in the air, and it's all movement and sweat and song and motherfuck if it ain't the most miraculous thing you ever experience in your life. The air's so thick and heavy anything can float in it, even them what who's weighed so far down by life they sink like ships in the snow. Everything can fly in summer, even you. And fly you do, fingertips spread wide, taking it all in.

It's getting too cold to spread your wings now, though. Gotta hunker down for the long haul. A crow lands on the branch and it snaps one, two, three more leaves from their perch. Ain't it a miracle how life just gives you all the right cues? With such a lovely beat to start on, you begin to sing, just rambling at first, then forming verse after verse after rhyme after rhyme and it all starts to flow together and shit you wish you hadn't somewhere along the way lost that pretty green pen.

You don't quite realize how much word release has been jiving up from your mouth till the screen door behind you slams open and a familiar voice says something about nosy neighbors a fuck up shutting, or some words like that in some order. Aww motherfucker, and you didn't think your best friend was all bein' at home tonight. You practically leap into his arms, or rather, haul him into yours, and after the customary best friend greeting, he drags you inside, griping about some thing that don't matter one bit, like maybe leaves stuck in fences. Motherfucker should appreciate Gaia's beauty more, you think, so you tell him, all about the leaves and the new growth and how no matter what time of year inside his house always feels like summer. He ignores you and picks up the phone, hands it to you, and you say some words to Tavros before you and your best of all buddies are tangled on the couch trying to squeeze one last summer day from the cold night. Even if the road gets dim, there's still a little of that sun burning deep in everyone, you think, right before you fade away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> someone made some absolutely lovely fanart for this chapter~ http://strangerheremyself.tumblr.com/post/11654377561/read-this-new-fic-on-ao3-called-fuckedupstuck


	9. Karkat: Enjoy your weekend

You're so tired. You could go into great detail about the weighted implications of that statement: emotional weariness, being spread too thin, being sick and tired of your life, but you're too physically, bone-numbingly exhausted to care. Most of the time, thinking takes too much effort anyways. You used to love thinking, and organizing, and planning. All those things. Yeah, not so much anymore.

Your boss yelled at you for sleeping on the job again today. You probably yelled back. Actually, you're sure you did. That's why there's now a lengthily, angry write-up on the dashboard of your car. One more and you're short a job. You suppose you should try and fix this shit soon or something. Nah, that can wait till tomorrow. It's your weekend, so you make a run by the liquor store on your way home. Gonna have the wildest one man party you can with you, a couple cats, a few six packs of shitty beer and 48 hours straight of Netflix Streaming. Fuck yes.

You get home, fighting sleep as you flop down on the couch, getting something queued up as quick as you can. It ends up being from the Foreign Thrillers genre, and you spend a while watching something in French without subtitles featuring cinematography that rivals the original 1922 Nosferatu before you doze off. You're awakened late in the night when the hand holding your drink finally slips, sloshing cheep alcohol all over your shirt.

God. Fucking. Damn it. Still only a quarter awake, you stumble to your room to change, a few of your beloved kitties following you, tripping you up and meowing for no apparent reason. You strip down to your boxers and manage to get an oversized t-shirt backwards and inside out over your head. You grab your blanky and are about to head back to the couch for more movies and maybe a little more sleep when a noise out on the porch distracts you. At first you think a few cats might've gotten into a fight, till you start to pick out coherent words, and a definite rhythm. Okay, so you've had some pretty weird hallucinations, but you've never heard cats rapping. That could only be one person, and sadly, he's not a hallucination. Not with a crippling bear hug like that. Or a kiss that drooly and unorthodox. Wait, kiss?

Oh hell no. You shove your "best friend" away and storm back inside, considering slamming the door in his face, but when he's standing out there in the cold trembling, still with that stupid grin on his face, prattling on about leaves and some other stuff you could care less about, you don't have the heart to leave him. Imbecile probably doesn't even know where he is. You let him in, and he paws around your kitchen for a while, finding a leftover slice of blueberry pie in the mess, while you try to think through your sleepy haze to do something rational. You figure his roommate's probably worried sick about him, and you're correct by the even more pronounced than usual stutter on the other end of the phone when you call him.

"Oi, I think you lost something."

"Yeah, he's drinking Drain-O and shoving forks through his eyelids as we speak."

"Jesus Christ, calm down. He's fine. Currently pressing every single button I have, and probably breaking a few of them, but fine."

"No you can't talk to him, that would require taking the gag out of his mouth."

"It's called SARCASM, you fucking NUMBSKULL. Were you raised under a rock? Wait, no don't answer that, I don't need a stuttered dissertation on the species of lichen found on the underside of your beloved childhood home right now. Write me up an memo and I'll get back to you gushing with praise the day I shake Hitler's hand. Here."

You shove the phone in your unexpected guest's face and he stares at it like it's trying to eat his hand, giving you the most doleful look you have ever seen. You make a phone out of your hand and put it to your ear, mouthing out a conversation and nodding encouragingly. He hesitantly raises it upside down to the side of his face and somehow manages to speak into it while you softly beat your head against the wall, dislodging the calendar from its pushpin.

"Yo Tavbro! What's all up in your world? I found myself my best friend here, and it's dark and shit and there's a cat tryin' to climb up my pants like some furry little motherfuckin' squirrelly dude. Hahaha my best motherfucker's tryin' a make a new hole in the wall with his face, man, you don't even got no knowin' how funny this shit i-" At this, your head makes an audible thunk against the wallpaper, and you roll it to the side to stick your tongue out at this stupid clown.

"What? Ride home? Nah, bro, home is where you're heart's all gettin' its beat on at, which is right here for now I guess. I'll be seein' you later, man! Stay chill!" You have to help him hang up the phone, and wonder how he managed to survive this long without keeling over from sheer lack of brain cells. It doesn't matter. You have things to do whether he decides to stay or not. Maybe his constant one-sided conversation with himself will keep you awake.

Or he could try to kiss you with enough force to push you through the couch cushions into the floor. That too. You wonder if nymphomania is a clinical disorder as you shove him away viciously, but you can't seem to keep your eyes open, so you let your head fall back and suddenly half an hour's passed and when you swoon back into consciousness, he's still curled up on you like a huge cat with his stupid cheap makeup smearing all over your neck. Whatever. You've wasted enough time already, and there are movies to watch, and don't have time to deal with someone whose breath smells like smoke and bubble gum, both of which you hate. You know what you haven't seen in a while? The Pursuit of Happyness. Yeah, you could go for some heart-tugging real life drama featuring the best man alive right now. If you can just get this fucker off you long enough to hit the play button…

Once you succeed, you begin to reevaluate how shitty the current situation is. On second thought, it isn't too bad. The music in the beginning credits is nice, and he really is pretty warm. You nuzzle up to his surprisingly warm chest and just let him kiss you on and off, because he really isn't too bad at it. You can feel yourself drifting off again, trying to pull him back down for more when he sits up and starts babbling about clouds and pirates. It's no use. In the end you're both only half-satisfied, curled up dozing together while Will Smith and his son work their magic on screen. You vaguely register the oddity of the situation and roll over, eliciting a snore from your friend. He tugs you back into his arms, and you realize you've been playing the big spoon to a guy over a foot taller than you this whole time. Honestly, is this all you can think to do with your life on a Friday night?

Sometime as the sun's rising, Sollux messages you out of the blue, apologizing profusely in his roundabout way, and you talk for a while about something before you drift off again. Gamzee might've made you a jelly and cream cheese sandwich for breakfast, and you might've grumbled at him for drooling all over your shirt, but you can't remember, instead plugging in another movie and drifting in and out of consciousness with it, unsure if he's even still there. For a best friend, he's not much, but you suppose he's okay some of the time, and that's more than you can say for most of the shitstains masquerading as bipedal, intelligent beings, as if opposable thumbs gives them the right to exist and procreate.

Like you're one to talk: you for whom this fuckery constitutes more or less your daily life, if you can call it that. You have a job at a bookstore, and you're taking night classes for a teaching degree, but you don't really care about either. You like movies, you like getting drunk on weekends, and you hate sleep, but can't get enough of it. People have suggested you see a doctor about medication for narcolepsy, but usually Red Bull does the trick, and selling books to the local slobbering rabble doesn't exactly pay enough to cover metric fucktons of medication, so you ignore them. Besides, it's time consuming enough keeping on top of everyone's drama and sorting it out without worrying about your own. You sleep till about three, then try and work on some homework, but you end up slumped over drooling on yourself. Again. It's a miracle you can be so intelligent, yet fail this hard at everything life has to offer. You're practically counting the days till you wind up flipping burgers in Hell for eternity at this point.


End file.
